Hidden Place
by littlemaru
Summary: She knew what Sherlock had meant to John when he was alive, but of course, she never thought he would come back from the dead.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

His ears were ringing from the sound of the shot. Not because it was loud, _no, it was a silencer, designed to muffle the firing of a bullet…_it was a sound he knew well, and he knew exactly what had happened without even being in the room.

He tried to deny it, holding his breath as he made his way up to the sound of muted gunfire. He was a soldier and certainly knew how to block out panic and stifling, overpowering nerves that threatened to disable him at any moment.

"Sherlock?"

No reply. It wasn't unusual of course, but something made John uneasy.

He paused at the door, unnerved by the sound of footsteps, a window opening.

"Sherlock?" he called out for the second time, alarmed.

Unable to wait a moment longer he opened the door.

A figure sat cowering on the floor, a blonde man, the man they had come for.

"What-"

The window was open, as he had heard it. Magnussen said nothing, looking up from his crouched position.

_For such a cold man he sure looked terrified_, John thought. Magnussen stared, _not at him however_. It was in that moment that he caught sight of the second figure, to the right of the door.

A man on his back, not moving.

He knew instantly what had happened, the gunfire, the open window... _But surely not?_

"Sherlock," John spoke, trying to piece together the sight that lay at his feet.

The sound of his own voice trembling made him recoil. The man on the floor opposite them, very much alive, said nothing.

They both stared at the man lying on the floor.

John forced himself to react, attempting desperately to ignore the unsteadiness he felt in his legs. He was shaking.

"Sherlock?" he called out, crouched down at his side.

His eyes were shut. A streak of blood stood out amongst the whiteness of his shirt. The man was injured, unconscious.

"What happened?" John demanded in the direction of Magnussen.

Pulling aside the jacket covering up much of the blood and with closer inspection, it could be nothing else but a gunshot to the chest.

Magnussen said nothing, watching coldly as the scene unfolded.

He watched as the man came to terms with what had happened. He knew exactly who this man was. He knew exactly who he was to the person who had done this. He watched the man feel for a pulse, determined to find one.

"A gunman." He finally spoke, standing up from his position on the floor. "Shot your friend."

John reached for his cell phone, quickly, skimming it across the floor towards the other man.

"Just call for an ambulance."

He continued to feel for a pulse, hoping that it wasn't too late.

_"Sherlock," _

It took a few moments – but he found it. There was a pulse, for now.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

She sat alone in the bathroom, _their bathroom to their marital house_. She'd made sure to destroy the clothes she'd worn, wash off all the evidence in the shower before hiding the weapon out of the house in a place John would never find. That was fine.

It took a while for her to dry off with the towel wrapped around her as she sat on the edge of the bath tub. She waited for the call from her husband, which she knew would be soon. In the meantime she sat silently by herself, thinking calmly of the man she had just destroyed.

##

John waited patiently, at least as patiently as he could, in the hallway. He had been advised to sit down by a nurse and a doctor, both concerned with his unsteadiness. But he'd refused. He simply couldn't keep still.

The hallway was quiet enough, giving him plenty of space to pace up and down – which he did – over and over. The shaking hadn't subsided, not since what happened. The ambulance trip had only worsened it, adding to the nausea that kept him in a hospital bathroom once they arrived. He'd been so ill with nerves he hadn't even had the chance to go with Sherlock into the hospital. An uncontrollable feeling of guilt washed over him, a feeling that could only be ignored by walking up and down, up and down…

Sherlock was in theatre at the moment. As a doctor, he couldn't help but overhear and oversee what happened in the ambulance. It was bad. He didn't want to think about what was happening to him, _what could happen to him_. The fear alone was enough to keep him pacing.

A nurse approached him for the second time, holding a glass of water.

"Sir, you ought to sit down," she suggested, attempting to meet his gaze that fell elsewhere.

"I can't,"

"Just for five minutes," she continued, this time urging him over to the chairs against the wall.

His legs felt like jelly; she was completely right that he should sit down. This particular nurse had been on hand when they'd arrived.

"You need to drink some water," she spoke a little quieter this time, sitting him down into a chair.

John nodded, realising just how much he was shaking when he finally sat still. He took the water, dehydrated from his nausea earlier.

The nurse sat down in the chair next to him, her eyes struggling to meet his. In his state he felt stunned and overwhelmed – the thought of how he must have appeared to her, as a soldier and a doctor, was one of shame.

"How is he?" he asked, finishing the water in one go.

"I don't know," she replied.

John swallowed nervously.

"Do you have anyone you can call?" the nurse asked calmly, taking the glass from his shaking grip.

He nodded, reaching for the phone in his coat pocket.

"My wife."

##

A nurse had called, from Guys Hospital of London, on behalf of her husband.

Not the person Mary had been expecting, but nonetheless she made her way to London Bridge within the hour. She took the five minute walk from the station into Guys Hospital, her nerves of seeing him adding to the shock she would have to feign. It would not be hard.

A nurse took her up to the floor where John was waiting for her. She'd been assured he was in quite a state, in response to what had happened. She'd expected this. However when she finally saw him and his eyes met hers, it was not the face she had expected. He did not look sad, or hurt, or distraught. He looked exhausted nonetheless but – he was smiling.

"Mary-" he got up from the chair to greet her.

She paused on the spot, watching him close the gap between them.

"He pulled through,"

John wrapped his arms around her, relieved and shaken all at once.

She paused for a moment, confused and calculating what to do.

"What happened?" she asked, returning the embrace from him. "Are you ok?"

"Sherlock," he said. "They didn't think he was going to make it, but he did."

Mary nodded blankly, pulling back from him. She felt a jolt of panic run through her.

"Are you ok?" she asked him again, feigning concern.

He exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the light-headedness that loomed over him.

"No not really," he replied breathlessly, backing towards the chairs.

"John sit down," she told him, like the nurse.

He sat down again, before his knees could buckle beneath him. He felt utterly exhausted from the events of tonight, not forgetting overwhelmed and distraught all at once.

Mary sat beside him, placing an arm around her trembling husband. She truly felt for the man at her side, the man she loved and the father of her unborn child: but in this moment she was drowned in a selfish, utter panic. Her heart was racing at a hundred miles an hour, but she continued to assume a calm exterior.

"What happened John?"

"They shot him, someone shot him."

Mary nodded as calmly as she possibly could.

"Who John?"

He sighed, shaking his head.

"I don't know."


End file.
